


the queen's gift

by thefudge



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Jon Snow is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Pseudo-Incest, Queen Sansa Stark, Slow Burn, very grumpy and suspicious Jon Snow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:21:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26648182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: AU. Years after Ned Stark's death, Queen Sansa, beloved wife of King Joffrey, embarks on a royal progress to the Wall.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, minor Joffrey/Sansa - Relationship
Comments: 17
Kudos: 167





	the queen's gift

**Author's Note:**

> this story popped, fully-formed, into my brain sometime in June and it hasn't left me since. so, you know, even though i have a million other WIPs, my impulse control has decided to abandon me completely. hope you enjoy!

we have no home in this world, I used to say.

marilynne robinson, _gilead_

***

The Lord Commander does not appear impressed by the royal missive he has just received. His face remains blank as he turns to Satin and Edd Tollett and Donnell Hill and issues a few perfunctory orders, the chief of which is to prepare the King’s Tower for a royal visit. 

The King’s Tower has not had such important guests in over a hundred years. Granted, it’s only the Queen and her small retinue who will be taking up residence, but no queen has visited the Wall since Good Queen Alysanne, and that was so long ago.

His hard-tested men who have fought Others beyond the Wall look a little awe-struck. They seem to have forgotten the queen was once a Stark, for they talk of her as a Southron beauty. Jon clenches his jaw and sends them out on their errands. Only Satin remains in the room and brings him fresh parchment for him to write a reply to the King’s Hand.

“Queen Sansa, she is your sister, isn’t she?” Satin says, after a long silence.

Jon dips his quill in ink.

Mormont’s raven flaps its wings from its perch. “ _Sister_ ,” it quorks. “ _Sister_ ”.

“A brother of the Night’s Watch has no family,” Jon reminds him coolly, and Satin is wise enough not to bring it up again.

Sansa hears her ladies in waiting stir awake. She bookmarks her place in Queen Alysanne’s diaries and sets the volume aside. Megga and Elinor Tyrell rub sleep from their eyes and try to set their hair pieces in place.

“How can your Grace read in such weather?” Megga inquires, suppressing a yawn. “Why, it makes one wish for one’s bed.”

Sansa smiles a small smile. Outside, it has been snowing gently and steadily for hours. The fields and small hills which they have passed are covered in fine white lace. Yet the snow has not set and large swaths of it are already melting. This could hardly be called winter.

“You forget that I was born here, my ladies. I’m quite used to it.”

Megga and Elinor soon begin to chatter excitedly about Winterfell. They will only adjourn there for a few days, but it will be the young girls’ last chance of varied society before their arrival at the Wall. They are most eager to meet Lord Bolton and his bastard son whom he has recently legitimized. They have heard talk of Ramsay Bolton and his seedy reputation and they hope he is as handsome as his black deeds. Sansa smiles thinly through it all, nodding and humming in appreciating, but she shows little eagerness to visit what was once her family’s seat.

In truth, she has had to expunge Winterfell from her heart, piece by piece. She knows the castle is now a foreign fortress, every trace of the Starks scrubbed clean by Bolton ambition. The usual song and dance is that the Boltons are only keeping the castle for Joffrey’s heir, but she has yet to produce a living one. Winterfell is but a reminder of her failure in that regard. Not even the godswood could bring her relief. She doubts it has not been tainted in some way. The sacred, she has learned, only survives if there are worshippers.

It is less painful to dwell on what was and better to look to the future. She touches the cracked spine of Queen Alysanne’s diaries. She will follow the queen’s itinerary where she can. A small, mouth-shaped bruise shows in the gap between her glove and the sleeve of her coat. She pulls the glove up. A goodbye kiss from Joffrey. Her nose no longer wrinkles at the memory. All things considered, it was almost tender of him.

A raven arrives at Castle Black, informing the Lord Commander that Queen Sansa has made it safely to Winterfell.

Jon sits by the fire with Ghost lying at his feet. The direwolf’s mane looks red in the firelight, a rosy-red, like flowers in bloom, which has always struck him as eerie. Jon scratches his ear absently, staring into the flames. Winterfell seems to burn there, whatever is left of his former home. He can’t imagine it is still safe for anyone. 

Yet castles and kingdoms go on, either way, even if they change coats and lords.

He ought to forget, if he cannot forgive. 

It has been almost a decade, and the wound still feels fresh.

The cold is sharper the further north they travel. The ice of the Wall reaches through the furs and touches bare skin. Sansa holds her ladies close, folding them in an almost motherly embrace. Megga and Elinor shiver, noses red with cold. Sansa breathes easier with the ice in her lungs, but she doesn’t tell them that. She shivers along with them and pretends discomfort. Yet she is quite relieved to leave Winterfell behind.

Elinor speaks wistfully of Lord Ramsay. She knows her lord father would never allow her to marry him, but he is just the right amount of brutish and gallant to nurse her childish fantasies. Megga turns her nose up. “I thought he was rather unbecoming, to speak plainly.”

 _Piggish_ , Sansa thinks to herself. His face was piggish and full of vice.

But Elinor remarks that Magga is only sour because he did not pay much attention to her.

Sansa lets them argue. She does not feel the least inclined to share her own thoughts. She cares for her ladies, but knows they do not like to be upset by ugly things.

And Theon Greyjoy has certainly become an ugly thing. She shudders as she recalls walking past the kennels and seeing the ghost of him tending to Ramsay’s dogs. Theon, haggard and unrecognizable, buried his head in his dirty cowl when he saw her coming. Lord Ramsay strolled over with a confident leer and made the introductions himself, as if Sansa could not remember the boy she had grown up with. Yet she maintained her composure and smiled sweetly at both, commending Theon for his service and Ramsay for his handsome dogs. She stood tall and queenly and undisturbed, so that Ramsay’s leer faltered and an angry blush reddened his cheeks because he had not managed to rattle her. Before she left, Sansa spoke with Roose Bolton and impressed upon him the importance of not allowing the likes of Theon Greyjoy to walk in rags in broad daylight. Lord Bolton promised to take care of it himself, but whether he will actually heed her suggestion remains to be seen. She does not put much faith in House Bolton, and she puts even less faith in men.

Sometimes, she thinks Joffrey gave Roose Winterfell as a reward for cutting down her brother, but also as a form of punishment for her ever thinking Robb would triumph.

Her mind returns to her idling ladies, who are now discussing Walda Bolton’s girth, and whether she is really with child, or simply very fat.

The queen’s stately carriage rolls uneasily over the mounds of grey snow and hobbles into the courtyard. Jon sees two Knights of the Kingsguard dismount next to the carriage. The rest of the retinue trickles in. Stewards come forward to take the horses to the stables. Rangers and builders and carpenters have gathered before the carriage, all eager to greet the queen. Even Hobb, the cook, has crawled out of his kitchen to see her. 

Jon sets his jaw and begins to climb down the wooden steps towards them. As he walks past his Brothers, a quiet order settles over their ranks and they fall back in line.

One of the Kingsguards helps the queen out of the carriage.

Jon holds his breath a moment.

The last time he saw Sansa, she was eleven, not even a woman grown. Now, she must be eighteen, at least. The figure that emerges from the carriage is a stranger, and like most strangers, there is something familiar about her too, something which has been lost to time. The first thing he remarks is her hair, still kissed by fire, but a shade darker, reminiscent of foxes in the snow and dead leaves. She is wearing it in a half-finished braid that leaves her locks free on her shoulders, a style which seems carefully stripped of geography. Her fine features have matured, grown less sweet and more mysterious, yet, when she gives him a gracious smile and steps forward to greet him, she gives the impression of uncomplicated friendliness. Yes, she is friendly and beautifully remote.

Jon bows and so do the rest of his men.

“Lord Commander. How good of you to receive us.”

To be called so by her sounds like a jape. He has never been lord of anything.

Her gaze betrays nothing as she stares at Jon. Yes, Joffrey’s perfect little queen. This has always been her childhood dream.

“You honor us with your presence, your Grace,” he replies stiffly.

Sansa introduces her knights, Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Balon Swann. John finds them both thuggish and self-satisfied, rougher looking than most of the men sent to the Wall, though they are draped in the finest cloth. He also does not like the way they stare at their queen, with something like appetite.

Sansa’s ladies come next. They look miserable and afraid and they scan their surroundings with a displeasure that they make little effort to conceal. Though Castle Black is not lesser than many of the castles in the North, it cannot compare to Winterfell and it must look hopelessly provincial in comparison to the Red Keep or Highgarden.

Jon decides to cut their misery short. He offers his arm to the queen. “May I escort you and your ladies to the Queen’s Tower?”

There is a flash of something unstudied in Sansa’s gaze, but in the next moment, her blue eyes look as serene and concealed as frozen lakes.

“You may, my lord.”

She wraps her hand around his arm. Her weight next to his and the mingling of their furs reminds Jon of Ghost and Lady and direwolves and different, mythical times. He looks around for his wolf, but Ghost has disappeared, as if reluctant to greet the very same ghosts in his name.

Sansa steps carefully over the snow, lifting her skirt. “That is not the name of the tower, as I recall.”

Jon looks ahead. “We renamed it in your honor, your Grace.”

“That was kind of you. After we leave, will you change it back?”

There is no challenge to her voice, yet Jon hears one, all the same.

“If it be King Joffrey’s wish, your Grace.”

Sansa opens her mouth, but she says nothing. She stops short, as if she has just been ambushed. The white direwolf is waiting for her at the foot of the Tower.

 _There you are_ , Jon thinks.

Sansa lets go of his arm. She takes a halting step forward. Ghost comes sniffing forward too, wagging his tail.

Before she can reach him, one of her knights intercepts her forcefully, taking hold of the queen’s arm. “Her Grace is not safe. The direwolf must be removed.”

Sansa bristles for a moment, as if his touch was unwelcome, but then her expression clears and she smiles. “Thank you, Ser.”

Jon swallows his distaste and calls Ghost to his side.

He is glad when he can leave the queen and retreat to the quiet of his private rooms.

Jon was never good at deception. It is strange, because a bastard boy has to learn from a young age to push his feelings to the bottom of the well. It must be the Stark features – he cannot help it. Everything washes to the surface.

Sansa’s heart sinks when she steps out of the carriage and sees his resentment writ large.

Jon, perhaps her last family, thinks her a traitor. It is so evident in the way he sizes her up, in his clipped replies, in his chilly “your Grace”. He judges her harshly, no doubt, but she has never discouraged this view of her. The kingdom had to see her as a willing participant, or else she would have never survived. But this is all beside the point. Compromise will never matter to a true Northerner.

She slips into the lukewarm bath the servants have prepared. The water reaches her throat. She lies there with unshed tears in her eyes which she mingles with the water she pours over her face. She had never realized until today that she loved Jon like family. She had been fond of him, in the past. She had always felt she could count on him, but she had usually stayed away because he got on so much better with Arya and she had never been jealous of that. But seeing him today after so many years, seeing the man with her father’s face and bearing, the boy who had risen up the ranks steadily and had earned the respect of his men and had traveled far beyond the Wall to places so inhospitable that no god haunted them - well, it has made her feel truly rotten, especially because she knows nothing about him, and he knows nothing about her.

 _We are all strangers_ , she reflects, sinking in the water.

The Watch’s normally modest supper has been enriched with pork pie, roasted apples and summerwine in the Queen’s honor. The dining hall is well-lit though smoky, the smell of cured meat still hanging over the tables. They have toasted the Queen out loud and she has raised her goblet and thanked them sweetly and now there is nothing to do but eat.

Jon sits at the Queen’s table uneasily, looking very much like the Old Bear, stern and silent.

Sansa is a few seats away from him, whispering something to her ladies. The Tyrell girls take small bites of pie, but they have a hard time chewing on it, and they gulp their wine with a sorry expression. They must be used only to lemon cakes and honey, he thinks, though Sansa takes large bites of her portion and swallows with what looks like relish. After a while, she turns to her other neighbor, who happens to be Sam. At first, Sam blushes and stutters through his replies. But soon, the discomfort dissipates and they begin a spirited discussion, of which Jon hears only snippets, but which has to do with the library and the number of parchments collected in the vaults. She seems to take a special interest in the condition of the books and Sam is only too happy to discuss such matters with her. Jon remembers now that Sansa was a voracious reader as a child, but she preferred tales of romance more than anything. Does she, still?

He tries not to watch her too closely, but that becomes difficult when, after a few whispered exchanges, she and Sam both rise and walk round the table. The Knights of the Kingsguard stand straighter, as if prepared to accompany her out of the room. But she does not leave. Instead, Sansa brings her goblet with her as she makes her way to the trestle tables below the dais. She asks to sit at the first table. Sam makes the introductions, casting a wary look in Jon’s direction. The Lord Commander is just as stunned as the rest of them.

What is she doing?

His Brothers shift awkwardly and make room for the queen. As soon as she is settled, Sansa starts asking questions about their families and their time at the Wall. At first, they answer cautiously, looking at her with polite reticence, but the more they see her nod and smile and show interest in their disparate lives the looser their tongues become. The summerwine helps. There’s also the fact that Sansa knows their villages and towns and haunts. She knows the North. His men look a little sad when she moves on to the next table. She is very graceful in her pilgrimage, seemingly neglecting no one.

Jon doesn’t know if he ought to put a stop to it. It’s not right for her to meddle into his Brothers’ affairs. But she is the Queen. He cannot, he realizes bitterly, deny her anything.

He can’t see how she’s managed it, but an hour later, they are singing songs in her honor. He can’t recall the last time this smoky hall rang with music. His men’s voices are strong and clear, like children’s. They clap their hands and drum on the tables with their fists and it is jolly, yet also eerie, because they’re singing songs of the North. The Queen has returned home. Sansa smiles in their midst and sings along with them, but she cannot be heard.

He catches her glance when she turns her head. Her eyes are filled with joy, yet moderate and well-contained. Is this another pretty performance?

He doesn’t mean to scowl, but it is as if she were pouring wax on his burned hand. She nods once in his direction and turns away.

When the songs end, Jon rises from his seat and lifts his goblin to the happy cries of his men.

“To the Queen,” he says, slow and unhappy.

“To the Queen!” the hall roars deafeningly.

He did not like her little show. Of course he would not. It was not for his benefit. But she reaps what she sows. The next day, every man greets her with a smile. She can see how much this aggravates Jon and she is secretly pleased. Her heart still aches at his coldness, but she will wrest small victories where she can.

The Lord Commander escorts her through Castle Black, showing her the ins and outs of the garrisons and outhouses and barracks. He shows her what the stewards do, what the builders do, what the rangers do, what every single person, young or old, is responsible for. He tells her that there is always need for more men on the Wall, and if the capital could spare some, he would be most grateful, but – Sansa notes – he almost sounds dismissive about it, as if he expects no help from such quarters. Every Lord Commander before him was always writing letters to his Grace, asking for more men. Not him, though. He wants the Watch to look as self-sufficient as possible. Why? It is a question she must think on later.

Jon is a careful host. Everything is displayed for inspection, so that the Queen can report back to the capital that the Watch is keeping busy. The Kingsguard shadow her wherever they go, not only to protect her, but to be Joffrey’s eyes and ears. They make conversation difficult, not that there would be much to say except empty pleasantries. Sansa walks at Jon’s side and observes him when he’s not aware. He is a man now, and there’s even a violent-looking scar that crosses the span of his cheek to prove it, but there is still something in the untamed curls of his black hair that reminds her of childhood melees in the courtyard where Ser Rodrik Cassel taught the boys how to hold a sword. She wonders if she could ever bring herself to mention Ser Rodrik. Instead, she brings up the name of another dead man.

“I’d like to see Maester Aemon’s grave, if you please.”

Jon flashes her a look that she could only catalog as scandalized. It almost makes her smile.

“I hear he passed away recently,” she explains patiently. “I should like to pay my respects to this last Targaryen.”

“Beg pardon, your Grace, but he has not been a Targaryen for a long time. He was a Brother of the Night’s Watch,” Jon replies coolly. 

Sansa nods. “Still, I should like to see it.”

“It’s beyond the Wall, your Grace. A league from here, there is a small grove of nine weirwood trees. That’s where we buried him.”

“Well then,” she says, brushing snow from her gloves, “we should make haste before dusk.”

“It’s not safe, your Grace,” he insists.

“My knights will be the judge of that,” the queen replies, looking back towards the Kingsguard who smirk at her most unbecomingly. Jon does not wish to know what sort of understanding they have.

“Maybe you could spare a ranger or two. I don’t think I require more protection than that,” she continues pleasantly, as if this were an already agreed upon venture.

Jon is at a disadvantage. There seems to be no easy way of arguing with her. He remembers now how often Sansa had her way when they were children simply because she learned to talk prettily. He grinds his jaw. How he’d like to say something honest to her, something that would cut her to the quick, but he realizes how foolish that would be. More than anything, he resents the fact that she makes him feel young, childlike, still in thrall to the trueborn Starks.

Very well then, let her see winter.

The land beyond the Wall does not feel much different from the land behind it. As they ride into the forest, Sansa notes that the trees are the same, only the snow is cleaner. It is only when they plunge deeper into the forest that an unconscious quietness settles over the party, almost as if they were afraid of disturbing the graves of other dead. And yet, she’s not afraid. She knows this is only a small taste of the remote, and that one would have to travel a much greater distance to feel the terror of the unknown.

In truth, she was not so interested in seeing the old man’s grave.

She only needed a good pretext to follow up on Lord Varys’ suspicions. The Master of Whisperers had heard rumors about recent wildling settlements along the Wall and the Lord Commander having something to do with that.

Sansa turns her head slightly and spots Ser Meryn and Ser Balon to her left, always in her orbit. She nods imperceptibly. Her knights waste no time. They spur their horses and gallop farther into the forest.

“Where are they going?” Jon asks. His voice rings louder in the silence.

Sansa looks unperturbed. “They are clearing the path ahead of me, making sure there are no hidden dangers. I’m afraid my husband has trained them too well.”

The mention of “her husband” makes Jon’s mouth purse. She has found that bringing up Joffrey in conversation tends to distract her interlocutors. In truth, her knights are supposed to search for any sign of a wildling presence and report back to her. Sansa almost hopes they find nothing.

When they finally reach the clearing, she almost misses it. She has been so caught up in her own thoughts that she almost loses her grip when she sets eyes on the heart trees. The faces at Winterfell were never quite so ferocious. Sansa stares at each open mouth in awe. The bone-white teeth look ready for a meal. The air here is thick with something venal and earthy, like blood under the ground. In fact, she can almost hear it. It makes her stomach turn a little. But she tells herself it’s only the rivers of melted snow.

She spies Ghost lurking behind the trees. Jon signals to him wordlessly. The white wolf darts between the branches and is gone without a trace. 

Sansa feels a pang of envy, even after all this time. She has not forgotten that deep, intimate bond with the direwolf. She wonders where Jon sent him. He tells his rangers to survey the parameter.

Sansa looks about her. Her knights have yet to return from their errand, which means they must have found something. She rather hopes not. But she mustn't forget her niceties. She's come here to stand before a grave and pretend to feel some piety, and so she does.

Frozen flowers and twigs adorn the small mound where Aemon Targaryen sleeps. It is a strange, lovely spot.

“I’m surprised you did not burn him,” Sansa speaks without thinking.

“What?”

She bites her tongue quickly. “I meant to say, I’ve heard you burn all the corpses here, for fear of wights.”

Jon eyes her warily. “You are well informed, your Grace. Aye, we do burn the corpses here.”

Sansa presses on. “But you made an exception for him.”

“I did.”

“Why? I thought it did not matter if he was a Targaryen.” Or, she wonders, does he think a Targaryen is immune to fire, after all?

“It doesn’t,” Jon says, frowning. “But…”

“But?”

“I…I trust Maester Aemon will remain below ground.”

Sansa raises both brows. “You _trust_ he won’t be made a wight? Why? Because he was a good and holy man?”

Jon shrugs, as if he could not say it better than she has.

Sansa is suddenly flooded with affection for his faithfulness. “That rather sounds like Old Nan talking.”

She hadn’t meant to let that slip. It must be the clearing and these damned heart trees loosening her tongue.

Jon looks as if he’s swollen something bitter.

She realizes that they are alone for the first time, his rangers being out of hearing.

“I’m surprised you still remember Old Nan,” he says very quietly, looking away.

If it’s meant to be a jibe she does not rise to it.

“I hear her death was quick and painless,” she says, bending down to pick up a small, frost-kissed acorn from the mound. Will this grow into a heart tree one day?

“A sword to the throat is never as painless as they say,” Jon issues severely. And she is reminded very much of Father.

Jon was not made to look at Ned’s head on a spike until he memorized every swollen feature. He was spared that. Men are wonderful fools. 

“Where are your knights, your Grace?” Jon asks, just as severely. “They have been gone a long time.”

Sansa does not wish for him to see her worry. She shrugs. “Perhaps the Others took them.”

Jon starts. “What did you say?”

“I’m only teasing.”

He glares at her. He evidently does not appreciate her levity. 

“I wonder how you can afford to laugh at them, your Grace,” Jon mutters angrily.

“I know I cannot afford it, but what else is there to do in the face of such an enemy?” she asks no one in particular.

It has been difficult to feel the horror of these monsters in King’s Landing, though the letters from Castle Black grow bleaker every year. No, Sansa is much more aware of their human counterpart.

She can tell Jon doesn’t understand her. He is not interested in human monsters, has not really met enough of them to judge. He’s also deeply insulted by her irreligious attitude towards everything he holds dear. He must think she’s insensitive and indifferent, while every day she inveterately stitches the holes in her costume. If only he knew. She envies his clean conscience. 

Sansa puts the acorn back on the mound. The wind licks the back of her neck, ruffling the fur in her collar. She is about to rise to her feet when she hears the voice. It almost sounds like it were coming from the tree, yet it’s also right next to her ear.

Sansa sits very still. She listens.

Rivers of snow melt under her feet. Her heart beats very loud. The voice sounds familiar and the back of her neck pricks.

The heart trees grin with teeth. She wants to get away from this place, right now. She fears that if she stays a moment longer she will scream, and that would be shameful.

“I should like to leave,” she tells Jon.

“What about your knights?”

Sansa fiddles with her gloves impatiently. “You might leave a ranger behind to guide them back to the Wall, but I think they will manage on their own.”

Jon raises both eyebrows but says nothing. Sansa is determined to go. She does not even require help mounting her horse.

On the way back, the snow still looks clean, as if their footfalls could not leave a mark here.

Sansa glances sideways at Jon.

“Ygritte,” she says out loud.

Jon almost jumps in his seat. “What?”

“Does that name mean anything to you?”

The Lord Commander looks paler than his wolf. He shakes his head mutely, though his face tells a different story.

Sansa stares over her shoulder. Behind them, the forest closes its doors. She may not believe in the Old Gods, yet she knows that is the name she heard whispered in her ear. The tree gave it to her. _Ygritte_. A girl’s name. There are no women at Castle Black. Is she a wildling, then? Jon seems to know her. Who else does he know?

He looks troubled and sickly as they ride back to the Wall.

Sansa focuses on the name. She does not want to think about the voice and who it belonged to.

His ranger, Geoff, returns close to nightfall with Sansa’s knights in tow. Ser Balon and Ser Meryn look half-frozen to death. They tell a queer story of becoming lost in a snowy maze of trees, just a few miles away. Geoff can’t explain how they got lost, for there was no maze he could see. The path was clear.

It makes Jon very uneasy. Either they are lying, or someone in the woods played a trick on them, and he can’t decide which he’d prefer.

Sansa’s arrival has, so far, brought only trouble.

And there is more to come. On the second night after their return she sends a messenger with a note. She wishes to speak with him in private. The Lord Commander must present himself at the Queen’s Tower like any other loyal subject. It chafes him. He fears he knows what she will ask him, but he has questions of his own.

He is received in a small room which she has apparently turned into her study. Sansa sits at a table filled with papers and letters and books. In fact, she is in the process of writing one when he arrives.

“I am writing my husband. He likes me to write him often,” she explains as she invites him to take a seat.

Jon looks away to hide his displeasure.

“Ser Balon and Ser Meryn are bedridden, I’m afraid,” she continues, putting down her quill. “But I believe they will be able to manage the rest of our journey in due time.”

Jon stirs. “The rest of your journey?” 

“In the royal missive sent to you I believe it was mentioned that I wish to see what improvements can be made at the Wall.”

Jon frowns. “Aye, and you have taken stock of Castle Black, haven’t you, your Grace?”

Sansa smiles thinly. “Castle Black is not the only settlement at the Wall that needs improving. I wish to see others.”

Jon blinks. He can’t have heard her right. He speaks slowly. “Your letter did not mention that.”

“My letter may not have made it very clear, but I wish to see other castles. I know that some settlements have been abandoned and I mean to find out if some of them could be restored.”

Jon leans forward, clenching his fists in his lap. “That is a perilous and long journey to make, your Grace.”

“It cannot be so dangerous if you and your men ensure safe passage. After all, safety is the Watch's objective."

Her pretty words fill the air and make his head ache. 

“And the Crown has sanctioned this royal progress?” he asks tartly. 

“Of course,” she replies serenely. “Just as they did once when Good Queen Alysanne made the same journey.” Her hand goes to a small leather-bound volume at her side.

“That was a Targaryen court,” Jon reminds her acidly.

“Yes, and this Baratheon court is just as enlightened. King Joffrey has given me leave to visit the castles and choose one in particular to patronize.”

Jon feels a dull throb in his temples. He must not lose his temper, but he is very close to.

“A generous husband,” he comments, staring at the fire grate. “What else has he promised you?”

Sansa cocks her head to the side. “You sound displeased, my lord. Is there a reason why you do not wish me to see the other castles?”

Jon clenches his jaw. Was she always this clever? Yes, he realizes, but he never quite saw it.

A Lannister spy, he thinks. For he knows who really controls the kingdom and it’s not the Baratheons.

“The Crown could have consulted me,” he replies evenly. “You could have spoken plainly.”

Sansa leans back in her chair. “All right, here is me speaking plainly. Who is Ygritte? And please do not pretend ignorance.”

Jon knew it was coming, yet he’s still not prepared.

“How do you know that name?” he asks, instead.

“Does it matter?”

“It does. I need to know who told you.”

“So, _she_ is real. Who is she?”

“Who told you?”

She inhales. “The trees.”

“What?”

“The trees told me. They whispered it to me.”

“ _Sansa_.”

It is the first time he’s said her name. He did not think he would ever say it again. He’s forgotten himself. Yet she looks perturbed as well. For a moment, she seems lost to reason. Her eyes glimmer with something unspoken. 

Jon swallows. “If you won’t tell me, then there’s nothing to discuss.”

Sansa shakes her head. “I’m not lying. I was in front of that heart tree. I - I heard a voice whispering in my ear.”

“What voice?” he asks testily.

There is genuine fear in her gaze now. “Someone - someone we both know.”

Jon’s eyebrows rise. Is this another trick? It feels too strange. “Who?”

Sansa shakes her head. “No... I must have imagined it.”

The air in the room has grown colder in spite of the blazing fire. If this is a performance, it's quite convincing. 

Jon clenches his burnt fist. He knows he cannot trust her. He knows she is a stranger, yet when he looks at her, he sees Winterfell and everything he never really had.

“Ygritte was a wildling girl. She is dead now,” he says quickly, as if to be rid of it.

Sansa frowns. “Dead?”

“Aye. I burned her and buried her ashes in the same place. She rests next to Maester Aemon. Perhaps that’s what the trees told you.”

She must not have expected this avalanche of truth, for she sits still for a moment in thought.

“She meant something to you, this girl?”

Jon knows he can’t hide his grief. He stares at the queen’s auburn hair, made crimson in the firelight, and he wishes it belonged to a different face. And then he hates himself for wishing it.

“Jon.”

He flinches as if burnt. This is the first time she has said his name.

Sansa’s gaze is soft. “We have both lost loved ones. I do not judge you. And I won’t tell anyone.”

Jon wants to believe her.

“How many other wildlings have you buried?” she asks, still gentle. 

Jon smiles. The little spy. He shouldn’t have told her anything. But she almost sounded sincere.

“Enough,” he says, returning to himself. “As you well know, there have been skirmishes throughout the years.”

“And peace, I assume,” she adds. “You’re not always at war with the wildlings. A wise Commander makes peace from time to time.”

Jon can see her line of thinking. She wants him to spell it out. He won’t give her the satisfaction.

He rises from the chair. “If it be your wish, we will travel to other castles along the Wall.”

Sansa nods. “It is my wish, thank you.”

He turns away, without excusing himself, because he can’t muster another minute of her company, but he is called back by the sound of her voice.

“Jon.”

This time, she sounds neither gentle nor clever. He looks at her over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

He doesn’t know what she is apologizing for; the fact that she is Joffrey’s faithful queen, the fact that Ygritte is dead, the fact that even when they are alone they can’t speak like family, because they were never family to begin with.

He nods and takes his leave.

It is only when he leaves the tower behind and fills his lungs with ice that he feels himself again.


End file.
